Fortitudo Dei
by woodbyne
Summary: To protect Earth and stop a battle between Heaven and Hell, The Gabriel sealed inside his body a deadly angelic weapon and cast himself to the mortal realm. Forces both angelic and demonic want him back and they will do anything to get him. The thing is, now Matthew can't remember a thing; who he was, who he is and that he's meant to be stopping the Apocalypse. AmCan/EngCan & more.
1. Rebel Yell

**This is a multichapter request by Eternal-Tempest. Enjoy!**

Two figures were hurtling towards him, air was rushing around him in powerful, swirling gusts, tossing at his hair and clothes; a localised hurricane.

"No!" The person was yelling at him, he was sure, "No, No!" Eyes the most beautifully incandescent shade of blue stood out from the blur of white and gold that made up the man flying towards him. It annoyed him more than a little that the whole scene played out as though underwater, with the blue fire in the other man's eyes being the only thing he could see clearly.

He shared some sort of bond with this man. A powerful connection, but he couldn't seem to place the nature of it. Fraternal, maybe, platonic, yes, but it felt like maybe there was something more.

"Gabriel, don't you bloody _dare_!" Another voice called out, and he was aware of gold, and black, and the most vivid green. The same connection, the same pang in his chest sprang up when confronted with this figure. Both were male, that much was obvious. Both cared for him. And he was about to do something stupid.

The world became momentarily clearer, the two men were getting closer, and he tipped his head back to the golden sky, feeling something burning against his clavicle. He was holding something. Tightening his grip, he pulled whatever it was towards him, feeling it sear his flesh as it pierced his chest. He could feel himself screaming; feel the ground opening up beneath him.

No matter how much pain had been caused by the thing he had impaled himself with, the feeling of his wings ripping out of his back as he tried to catch himself mid-fall was infinitely worse.

~====o)0(o====~

"Another nightmare?" Carlos asked as he handed Matthew a frozen yoghurt and a cup of coffee.

"It's getting ridiculous," the Canadian confirmed, accepting the items gratefully and heading towards a table, "I feel like I got worked over with an Acme meat tenderizer in my sleep. You know; a giant one from those Road Runner cartoons."

"What was this one about?" his Cuban friend asked, sticking a plastic spoonful of vanilla into his mouth.

"I can't remember much. Just being in a lot of pain. People were calling out to me. Falling. Screaming. I woke up feeling like my spine had been ripped out, but it went away almost iMadamediately. Like a phantom pain, you know?" Matthew sighed, gulping at his coffee. Paediatrics was not an easy field of medicine at the best of times, and these dreams certainly weren't helping.

"I have a friend who could help you with those, you know. Sweet girl. Hoodoo priestess. If you give her a lock of your hair and a little bit of blood, she can cure anything," Carlos nodded, "I was having problems with nicotine, yeah? I went to her and I haven't felt like a cigar in months."

"You work in a hospital. Doesn't that automatically mean that you can't believe in Hoodoo and Voodoo and that kind of thing?" Matt asked, feeling fractionally more like himself now that he had coffee in his system. He'd woken up late and had to dash out of the house before he'd had time to make his caffeine fix.

"I'm a radiologist, Mattie, I can believe whatever I want to," the Cuban shrugged, eating more ice cream. Matthew sighed, doing the same. He loved his job, he really, truly did. There were few things as rewarding as working with children. But those dreams. They had become more and more frequent of late, clinging to his days with dark tendrils of pitch. Following him out of the nightmares and sucking him back down into the Lau Brea tar pits of his subconscious.

"Alright," the Canadian huffed, stacking his polystyrene cups together for disposal, "I have an appointment now. I should be going." Someone had had a bouncing baby boy, and it was his job to make sure that the little angel really did bounce. Figuratively speaking, of course. Babies were his favourite part of the job. They had the whole world in front of them to explore and so much to learn about; love, heartbreak, hope and faith. He always wondered what the little life in his hands would grow to be. Sometimes Matthew liked to try his hands at clairvoyance and predict what he thought the baby would grow to be.

"Hold it," Carlos said, hurriedly fumbling a pen from his pocket with one hand and a clean napkin with the other, scribbling something down on the soft tissue, "Take this. It's the number of that Houdon. "

Matthew grimaced, a faint whine slipping past his teeth.

"I know, I know, you don't believe in any of that kind of thing, but, _ay_, Mattie," the Cuban pursed his lips in genuine concern, "If you lose any more sleep, it's going to affect your work." He waved the serviette around, refusing to stop until Matthew had tucked it into the breast pocket of his lab coat and promised to think about it.

~====o)0(o====~

"I'm sorry about this," a harassed looking mother said as she handed her squalling infant to Matthew, who just smiled, taking the child into his arms. Jeremy was barely 24 hours old after all, he didn't know any better, "He just won't stop crying."

"That's alright," he smiled, cradling the child to his chest and pressing one finger to those damp, pink lips, "Hush now, child. You will have your time to speak."

Amazingly, it worked. Well, more amazing for Jeremy's mother than his doctor. Matthew had found that that particular little trick worked for him long ago.

The examination was otherwise routine. Jeremy was a perfectly healthy, happy baby boy and his mother was informed of this as he was returned to her. The rest of the afternoon passed in much that manner. Waving in patients; some of them no more than a few days old and some of them much older. Lots of mummies and daddies were bringing their darlings in for inoculations because Rubella was making the rounds again, and that meant lots of tears before bed time and a serious depletion of Matthew's stock of lollipops.

Oh well.

~====o)0(o====~

The sound of metal ripping filled his ears, painfully loud and heartbreakingly sad. All around him, combatants gathered up their swords; brothers fighting against brothers. The scent of blood was heavy in the air and it made his stomach turn. Beating his wings, he rose above the melee, parrying another thrust from someone he had only a few days ago laughed and smiled with. The man screamed as he fell to earth, and the angel swallowed back more bile. Cherubim with broken wings littered the ground, and those who still could tried to fight, stumbling over the corpses of their brethren.

"Gabriel!" he turned to the voice, hoarse as it was with screaming, it still commanded his attention, his heart resonating like a plucked string.

Michael cast a terrifying, awe-inspiring silhouette across the field of war. He was blood-streaked and weary, but still he fought, sword mercilessly cleaving flesh from limb in the light of Lucifer's flames.

"Sound another attack!" Michael sounded as though his vocal chords were bleeding as much as the rest of him was.

"You'll kill us all!" It was very disorientating. The first time he had heard his own voice. It too was ragged and thin, but clear as a bell through the howls of the dying, the roar of the dragon and the thunderous clash of blade on blade.

"Better dead than under Satan's rule!" as though the blade weighed his own bodyweight, Michael hefted it up.

"Lucifer, he's not- he's just-"

"Sound another attack! Gabriel, _please_!" He never had been able to watch Michael beg. Reluctantly, he raised a horn to his lips, the note ringing clear across the battlefield, rallying the living to the front lines.

The dragon turned to face the renewed wave of angels. Verdant eyes lingered on him and he bowed his head.

"I'm sorry," he whispered as another of his brothers fell beneath his sword, the sickening aroma of death pervading the air.

When he was next able to look to the dragon that had curled around Heaven's gates, Michael was upon it, his sword raised in the centre of a storm of flame. The killing blow.

"_Michael, no!_" he shrieked, vocal chords ripping.

The sword stopped. Michael glared at him, the preternatural blue of his alight with the fervour of battle. An unholy scream ripped from the Archangel's throat and he threw his sword aside.

"Betrayer," the Archangel roared, pushing the dragon beyond the pearly gates. The creature's bulk disintegrated, leaving a man and his ragged army. Green eyes blazed as Lucifer stared at him, but there was no hatred there as Michael spoke again; voice ragged, "In the name of God, I cast you out!"

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew clung to his duvet with trembling, aching fingers; more perspiration on his skin than there was precipitation in the Amazon basin. Getting out of bed, his legs buckled and it took several tries before he was able to stand up and even then walking was right out of the question. He just sat back down on his crumpled sheets and tried to breath.

One soul-searching shower and an industrial-strength cup of coffee later, Matthew was feeling a little bit more like himself. It killed him that he wasn't able to remember that wretched dream, but at the same time if he felt like this and he couldn't remember, if he actually could he would probably puke.

Toying with the serviette, the blond let out an almighty huff of air and picked up the phone, dialling the fuzzy black numbers. If only to humour Carlos, he might as well try out whatever Esoteric had come recommended. And if her placebo-effect mumbo jumbo made the nightmares go away, then as far as Matthew was concerned, it would be worth the price.

~====o)0(o====~

"Madame Laroche?" Matthew asked hesitantly, knocking on the gaping front door of a house that looked surprisingly neat, given that it belonged to a Houdon priestess. It seemed perfectly ordinary, actually, except for that it smelt rather strongly of herbs.

"Monsieur Williams," a young woman in a blue dress stuck her head around a cupboard, "One moment, please, come in and make yourself comfortable." She waved one thin hand in the direction of a sofa while she rummaged through a stock of dried plants too desiccated to differentiate.

Lingering awkwardly around the threshold, he walked slowly to the blue and white patterned couch, sitting down gingerly on the edge of a cushion, fiddling with his fingers. This entire experience was one he was entering into with more than a mild sense of trepidation. Matthew had never really found himself to be drawn to the occult and while he wasn't exactly up to his eyebrows in chicken feet and rhino horns, there was still something about this place that made him very uncomfortable – an itch he couldn't scratch.

It took a few minutes for Madame Laroche to sort out her herb cupboard, but once she had, she waltzed over to Matthew, collapsing in an arm chair covered in the same optical-illusion patterned fabric. She was considerably younger than he had expected her to be. Far too young to be a Madame. Her soft black ringlets were divided into two bunches.

"You like my couch?" she asked, a winning smile on her face, "It's shwe-shwe. Imported."

"It's," the Canadian paused to run his hands over the stiff material, "It's lovely-"

"You said you were having bad dreams," Madame Laroche interrupted, though not unkindly, though Matthew was still a little irritated considering that she had stopped him answering her own damn question, "Could you tell me about them?"

"I don't really remember them," he sighed, trying to meet her eye and finding his gaze drawn magnetically to the floor, "They're horrible. I wake up screaming and sweating; sobbing even," if this was even going to have a hope in hell of working, he figured he might as well be honest, "I don't think I have ever been as scared, as miserable or in as much pain as I am when I wake up from those nightmares. I remember," Matthew closed his eyes, breathing deeply, "I remember falling, fighting and," every nerve in his body seemed to pinch at once, "_Agony_." The word came out as a huff of breath. When he opened his eyes again, Madame Laroche was kneeling in front of him with an expression of deep concern, and her proximity made him start mightily.

"Your Third Eye is blocked," she announced suddenly.

"Oh, that's… um. That's bad?" he tried, grimacing slightly, unsure whether he should be smiling or frowning.

"Cher, that's very bad. Your Third Eye is your greater thinking; your spiritual awareness. And yours is completely blocked off." She darted forward, grabbing his hand in surprisingly strong fingers, poking at the pale skin and drawing lines across it with her fingertips, "Your past wishes to communicate," she murmured, "But something stops it. I can't help you here, you have to work this one out on your own."

Though Matthew had been expecting disappointment, this was beyond ridiculous. To have come all the way out here only to be told that his third eye was blocked and to have to muddle it out himself was so far past the point not funny that it was practically criminal.

"Right," he said, a touch stiffly, getting up and smiling, "Thank you for your time. And how much do I owe you for this?"

"Nothing," she smiled flippantly, getting up to follow him to the door, "I did nothing I can charge you for, so you owe me no money."

"Oh," Feeling rather childish, Matthew held out a hand to shake, "Well, thank you. I'll have to see what I can do about my third eye." At least she was nice enough not to charge him for a waste of time.

"Be cautious with your heart, Matthew Williams. It is more important than you think." Grinning nervously Matthew thanked Madame Laroche and excused himself, promising to be cautious, whatever she meant by that. It wasn't until he was halfway home again that he remember he hadn't introduced himself.

~====o)0(o====~

"So," Carlos asked, relieving Matthew of a cup of coffee, "How did it go with Madame Laroche?" It had been about a week since their last shared break and they both looked like they could use the rest. Matthew's nightmares had done nothing but increase in regularity with frightening speed.

"My fifth eye is blocked, or something like that," Matt sighed, rubbing at his eyes and having resigned himself to the fact that his bags were starting to scare the children.

"Optometry is not my department, Mattie," the Cuban sighed, leaning heavily on the table, "But I tell you what. There's a new club down town and I hear it's good. Let's go. You'll be too tired to have a nightmare, and if you feel like it, you can find someone to keep you company."

Matthew shook his head, expression doubtful, "Carlos, I really don't think I'll be up for a club tonight," and for some reason Madame Laroche's warning about his heart had just stepped up to the forefront of his mind and the idea of a one night stand seemed a little less than appealing.

"Please," his friend asked, face unprecedentedly serious, "Just this once, Mattie. I'm worried about you."

"Fine," the Canadian relented, "I have to go now. But I'll see you later. How's eleven?"

Carlos grinned, slapping Matthew on the back, "You know the party doesn't start before then!"

~====o)0(o====~

On this list of things Matthew didn't like, clubs were pretty high. They were loud, noisy and smelly, as a general rule. This one wasn't really any different, but it blasted half-way decent Latin-American dance music rather than the usual base-dropping bump and grind anthems that had gotten so popular.

But maybe that wasn't what he really liked about this particular club. What was great about the club was that there was someone checking him out; that was always appreciated. And the man doing the checking wasn't unattractive either. He was hallway down the bar, and not being particularly subtle with his gleaming blue eyes and his wide smile – white enough to glow in the ultraviolet lighting.

He even winked at Matthew, who grinned into his beer bottle, raising it in a toast, and the stranger did the same with his own dark glass.

Maybe it was the strobe lights and the way they made everything look like an underwater zombie apocalypse, or maybe it was because the Canadian was disgustingly over-tired. Either way, it looked like the blond moving towards him was flickering, vanishing and reappearing a few feet closer. Tall and tan, blond and broad, his shirt stretched smooth over his chest, he probably could have pulled anyone at in the club. Matthew couldn't place the strange confidence in the back of his mind that this beautiful stranger wouldn't come to anyone but him.

"Angel," the man asked voice just loud enough to be heard over the thump of the drums. That voice reminded him of something. Something powerful, beautiful and intense and _God_ how he missed it. "Did it hurt when you fell from Heaven?"

"Pardon?" the Canadian asked incredulously, not sure that he had heard that correctly. He hadn't thought that people actually used pickup lines like that.

"Did it hurt," the stranger repeated, "When you fell from Heaven?"

Maybe it was those intoxicatingly blue eyes; maybe it was that handsome face. Heck, maybe it was the beer. The whole situation confused the Canadian more than he would ever care for. So maybe it was that wild, aching, unknown feeling inside him that prompted the words from his lips;

"It was excruciating."

~====o)0(o====~

"My Lord!" A dark smile was lit by darker eyes, sweat dripping from sallow skin as the wretched being panted on the floor, "We have found him, my Lord. We have found the Gabriel!"

Claws tapped on the carved arms of a marble throne, legs uncrossed and a man leant forward into the flickering firelight; gimlet eyes flashing,

"Is that _so_?"


	2. You And Me And The Devil Makes Three

The soft cotton of Matthew's bed sheets clung to his hot back as he was pushed deeper into the mattress. Alfred's grip on their interlocked hands tightened as he thrust forward and the Canadian arched, a shallow gasp tripping up the rhythm of their heavy breathing.

"Matthew," the man above him panted, warm lips to his neck and body moving languidly; deep and slow so that the breath was stolen from the other blond before he could draw it.

"Alfred," the word was praise, a plea, a prayer. And the name of the man who was steadily possessing his body. Kisses moved down Matthew's collarbones, across his chest and back up until their lips were brushing. Not-quite-kisses passed between them and the Canadian was quite sure that this was far more intense than a one-night-stand was supposed to be. All the same, the sex was almost perfect. Almost. "Harder."

"Y'sure?" Alfred gasped. His voice was husky and low, rubbing Matthew in all the right ways as it thrummed through their joined bodies, "I don't wanna-_Uhn_!" his words dissolved into a guttural moan as the man beneath him rolled his hips almost violently, locking his legs around the American's waist, driving him deeper until he was sheathed to the hilt and Mattie let out a long, satisfied groan.

"_Harder_," he repeated hoarsely, and this time, Alfred obeyed.

~====o)0(o====~

"I know this is hard for you," Michael said as they walked arm in arm through Eden, their shoulders brushing, "But we can't have that kind of dissent in the ranks. Especially not from an Archangel. What would our Father think?"

He sighed, head bowed, watching the grass beneath their feet, "I know. It's just that I miss him." He shouldn't have chanced a look at Michael because the frost that had crept over the other angel's expression was something that should never have been allowed.

"You two were close," he stated and all the rage of war was gone from his voice, leaving only tired resignation and heartache, "I know I don't have the same appeal that Lucifer does. I'm not as charming or charismatic or tempting as he is," they had stopped walking now and Michael's hands were warm over his; the calluses where the warlike angel held his sword were oddly comforting. There was no battle-field ring to his voice; it wasn't pitched to echo over the screams of the dying. There always had been and probably always would be a special place in his heart for Michael who despite his calling was so kind, "You'll always remember him, I know. But if you could, remember me sometimes, too, Gabriel?"

"You don't have to fight for me, Michael. I'm here," he sighed, leaning in to rest his head on the other's shoulder, giving in to the promise of eternal protection and a warm embrace, "Please don't fight."

"How can I not?" to say that the Archangel Michael sounded frustrated was a supreme understatement. And at the same time he sounded so terribly desolate, "You love him, too."

"I'm sorry," was all he could say, an intense, aching misery throbbing in his chest as Michael's warm arms encompassed him, kisses raining down on his face.

"Don't be," the warrior sighed, "I wouldn't change you if I could. Now I've gotta go. I've got my garrison doing drills; it would look bad if I didn't turn up."

He laughed, brushing golden blond hair back from Michael's face and leaning in for a peck on the lips, "Off you go, soldier. Come back safely."

"Sir, yes, sir!" The Archangel stamped a salute and proceeded to flatten the grass with the downdraft of his wings.

Sighing, he watched the other fly off with a melancholy smile. He adored Michael, he truly did. He was everything he should want and everything he did want, but there was someone else he wanted just as much. Separate, but equal.

"Alone at last," someone drawled from behind him. The voice was crisp and clear even though it was being steadily muffled by his neck as the voice spoke into it, "I thought he'd never leave. I've been waiting so long to get you alone."

Speak of the Devil, and the Devil shall appear.

Even as Lucifer's lips stroked over his pulse point, he tried to stop his hard leaping from his chest for joy, "Lucifer-"

"Come, come now," Satan murmured with laughter in his voice, "There's no need for such formality, is there, _Matthew_?"

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew's eyes flicked open, his whole body tense, alert and very much aware that he was lying on top of someone else.

All in all, it was not the best post-sex wakeup he'd ever had.

Feeling the buzz of a caffeine headache thrumming around his eyes, the Canadian gingerly peeled his face off of Alfred's chest and shoved himself so that he was doing a push up over the sleeping American. He had half expected the other's appeal to lessen with sobriety but if anything he had gotten even more attractive. Bed-mussed, sunshine-blond hair flopped across Matthew's good sheets, tanned skin glowing in the early morning light; Alfred (Johnson? Jackson? Jamison?) looked as though he could be some kind of pagan god.

The sudden and very-nearly crippling desire to lie back down and spend the rest of the day warm and safe in bed washed through him. He could do it; it was his day off… Matthew shook his head, carefully extricating himself from twisted, sweaty sheets and Alfred's rather tenacious grip; he finally managed to get out of bed.

With a sigh and a brief shake of his head, the Canuck pulled a towel from behind the door and stepped into the bathroom.

The shower was uncomfortably hot, but welcome all the same. It had been quite a while since Matthew had picked up a stranger, and he wasn't all that sure what to do with him now that he had. The prospect of having to make conversation was daunting to say the least, but he'd made his bed, so to speak; might as well lie in it. And there was no reason he couldn't have coffee while he did so.

It was about halfway through pouring his own cup of black gold and in the midst of thinking about whether it would be weird to wake Alfred up with a cup of coffee when a pair or warm hands slid around his wait to settle on his hips, thumbs pressing into the contours that lay beneath his jeans.

"Good morning," Alfred's voice was thick and hoarse with sleep, his skin warm and pleasant and nerve-prickling unsettling against Matthew's neck as he nuzzled into it.

"Hello to you too," the response was much more flirty than he had intended it to be, but the man had spent an evening between his thighs; he was entitled to a little flirtation, "How do you like your coffee?"

"Hmmm," Matthew felt his skin prickle as Alfred's lips brushed over it, mouthing silent promises into it, "I don't know, Mattie, you tell me."

"Mattie?" he asked, one eyebrow raised to add sugar to his own coffee, "When did you start calling me that?" His hands moved on autopilot, mind very much occupied with the licks of heat that were flickering up his spine in time to the other's breath caressing the fine hairs on his neck.

"Somewhere between that thing where your leg was on my shoulder and you _twisted_," Alfred paused to let out a long breath, as though he was trying to blow the pink in his cheeks out through his lips, "And watching you cum beneath me."

"It's called the half split," Matthew coughed, pressing up against the counter in an attempt to make a little bit of space between himself and the American as he handed the other his coffee. Trying to be subtle about the two large steps he took backwards, the Canadian took a sip of his black gold, motioning to Alfred's with his cup, "Did I get it right?"

The other blond bent his head over the cup, straightening with a delighted smile and the tip of his tongue sliding over the damp sheen of coffee that clung to his lip. Alfred's expression reminded Matthew very much of the look of aching hunger that the American had worn in the dead of the previous night when their clothes had started to come off.

"Perfect," Alfred murmured hoarsely, eyes bright and smile tucked away into the corner of his mouth.

Matthew nodded, not sure if he was hot or cold, comfortable or uncomfortable. He felt like he had known this gorgeous person his entire life, but there was absolutely no way that that was possible, because he definitely would have remembered that face, that voice, the way his heart throbbed in his chest. He remembered all of it, but there is no possible way that he could have experienced it. It didn't make sense.

"Say, Mattie," those gorgeously bright blue eyes were just visible through pale lashes as they examined his coffee, "Do you believe in love at first sight?"

He felt his skin turn ice cold. This was most definitely a conversation he wanted very much to not be having. Especially not with Alfred Whatever-The-Heck-His-Surname was in his own damn kitchen when all he really wanted as a paracetamol and to wash his sheets.

"No," Matthew answered, drawing the word out cautiously and wondering if this was what deer felt like in the instant before they were snuffed out by a car, "I can't say that I do."

Alfred frowned slightly and the Canadian wondered if maybe he hadn't just said something incredibly stupid to a person that he really didn't know from a bar of soap. But as intrinsically as he had known that Alfred wasn't looking at anyone else at that bar the night before, he knew that the American wouldn't ever hurt him.

"Alright," Alfred shrugged, still not looking happy about the answer to his question but seeming to let it slide, "What is it that you do when you're not bewitching strangers in bars?"

It was Matthew's turn to frown, the implication that he did this often was not one that sat particularly well with him, but he set it aside, "I'm a paediatrician," he said, voice a touch sharper than Alfred deserved but Mattie was more than a little spooked at this point, "And what about you? Or are you always lurking in dark corners, smiling at unsuspecting doctors?"

Looking a touch put out Alfred took another gulp of coffee, "I'm a soldier," he shrugged, his mug reflected in the depths of his cream-laden coffee.

"Oh?" Matthew asked, blinking rapidly as though that would somehow make his shock disappear. Of all the professions Alfred could possibly have, why a soldier? Tinker, Tailor, Spy, but Soldier? It seemed so at odds with his gentle expression, he didn't seem like a man with a cause worth fighting for. But, then again, he supposed that he shouldn't judge a book by its cover or a soldier by what he did in his free time. Or _who_ he did, the Canadian added, a little shamefacedly. "Have you been in the army long, then?"

"As long as I can remember," the American shrugged, as though it wasn't one of the weirder answers he'd given his previous evening's bed mate. There was a fondly nostalgic smile in the quirk of his lips and at Matthew found it quite endearing, even through the strangeness, "My garrison is my family."

"That's nice" Matthew smiled along, half fascinated and torn between inviting Alfred to spend the rest of the day getting to know each other and half eager to kick that delicious, GI Joe butt out the front door, yelling, '_And stay out_!' He didn't even know how to describe it to himself. Alfred made him so comfortable that it was _un_comfortable. It was unsettling to have this kind of immediate, intimate connection with someone he had barely just met. He didn't know Alfred whatever-his-face-was from a bar of soap and yet the desire to … to… run his fingers through his hair and kiss that wispy, wannabe sideburn. Something so very intimate, something so personal that it really was inappropriate given that they didn't know each other all that well. And though the feeling was wonderful and natural, he wouldn't deny that, he didn't like it. He didn't like the feeling of not knowing why this feeling was. Matthew was having emotions without his own consent and damnit, it was not okay!

"It is, but when a family member goes missing, it's doubly hard. No one can replace him." Too intense, Matthew thought, Alfred's eyes on his, staring through his soul. Nodding like a bobble-headed dog in the back of a car, he wished he had a better response than,

"I'm so sorry for your loss," because it truly did seem wholly inadequate, and he still had to give this poor soldier the boot. It was if Alfred was angling not to be thrown out. Unfortunately for Mr USA, that wasn't going to happen. Matthew was in dire need of some headspace and headspace that didn't involve Alfred or the smell of sex in his bedroom would be great.

"No one is ever truly lost," Alfred answered serenely; making the Canadian think once more that perhaps he had invited a member of the lunatic fringe into his bed.

"That's… That's a wonderful thing to believe, uh," Matthew set aside his empty coffee cup. There really was no tactful way of putting this, "Alfred, I need to leave. So, um, I need _you_ to leave. Please." His fingers tapped and curled around the lip of the countertop, gripping it with white knuckles; leaching strength and hoping that he hadn't offended the beautiful, bewildering man.

Offended, no, but there was something very much reluctant, plead and desperate in those eyes, "I will, but Mattie, can I- I don't want this to be the last time we see each other."

"Alfred, I'm not really looking for a relationship." There, he'd said it. Matthew had very little inclination to become part of a _we_, and while he could see how boundlessly wonderful it would be if Alfred was the other part to that _we_, it was still very much a case of 'do not want.' Relationships, in his experience, were messy, time-consuming and ultimately not worth the bother.

Alfred's frown needed no vocal chords to express the volume of its displeasure. "Okay," he said slowly, "I can understand that. But I still want to see you again," his face screwed up, "It could be casual."

"No, it couldn't," Matthew grimaced, rinsing out his cup for later scrubbing. That was not the face of a man interested in a casual relationship.

"At least give me a chance? " Looking directly at Alfred was his first mistake; he looked miserably hopeful that it was hard to look away; like when a puppy begs for scraps at the table. Only much harder to resist, and it wasn't like he was asking for more than a chance.

"Alright," Matthew sighed, "Just a chance. And no strings."

His second mistake, the Canadian realised when Alfred took his face in those warm, calloused hands and kissed the breath straight from his lungs, was thinking he could do 'no-strings'.

~====o)0(o====~

Matthew sighed. He had said that he was going to meet a friend in a coffee shop. And that was a lie. The only friend in this particular café was a double espresso. He rubbed at his eyes. Maybe giving Alfred his number had been a mistake. The man obviously wanted something more than just some friendly fucking. Not that that what they had done could really be classed as _fucking_, per se. Long and slow and so tender that it made his chest ache hollowly. He turned his eyes back to the coffee before he could think anything that would cause him public embarrassment.

It was just that Alfred was so lovely and so very perplexing – not that the American seemed to have changed his mind at any point in the proceedings; he certainly wasn't playing hot and cold. He was just. So … willing. It was _weird_.

But not unappealing.

Sighing again – he'd been doing that a lot lately – and letting his fingers play across the cheap ink and newsprint of today's headlines, Matthew sought something cheerful amid the murder and mayhem of the front page.

The tiny glass table wobbled dangerously, espresso slopping over the newspaper, darkening with running ink and gluing the pages together, "_Perfect_," Matthew said viciously, scrabbling for serviettes to mop up the flood before it stained him as well, "_Just_ what I needed."

"I'm terribly sorry about that, lad," it wasn't until he heard the apology that Matthew realised that the table hadn't just suddenly decided to rebel against him. It had been knocked into, "I wasn't looking where I was going."

"It's alright," yet another in an endless procession of sighs. Matthew internally cringed internally, feeling himself turning into a character in one of his least favourite books even as he sat there, "It's just a-" _Oh no_, his rational mind groaned, _not __**again**_. "- Newspaper."

"All the same, it was very careless of me," this man was attractive. And not just attractive in the way that made Matthew think he might lean out a little to admire his retreat, but rather attractive in the way that made Matthew think that if he wasn't careful he could be hit by a bus while watching this man, "The least I can do is get you another coffee. You don't sound like you're having a particularly good day."

_Oh no. He's hot,_ was about the only coherent thing in Matthew's mind, but some socio-normative response shoved, "Really, there's no need," off of his tongue and out his mouth. Stare as he might, the Canadian didn't seem to absorb the details of who he was looking at. Sharp features, blond hair and the loveliest eyes he'd seen since half-past ten that morning.

"Please," the man smiled, "I insist."

"Okay," Matthew relented. He was not prepared to deal with this. One perplexingly attractive man in a day was already more than he could handle. Two was just uncalled for. And he wasn't going to stay up all night having sex again because he was on call tomorrow.

Not, he mused as his eyes slid to admire the way the crisply suited man walked, that he would mind all that much being a little more tired than usual.

It wasn't long before he was back, an espresso for Matthew and his own drink in his hand, "Would you mind very much if I sat down a minute?" Unreasonably Attractive Man Mach II asked, the fingertips of the hand that held his coffee lingering along the back of the chair in front of him in a way that made Matthew want to lick his lips. (Maybe there was something in the water. Something like Viagra. Or some new hormones people were putting in the meat he ate because this obsession with blond men was becoming something of a problem.)

"Of course," he waved a hand at the seat, "Be my guest." Smiling graciously, the man sat, setting the drink down. It had 'Earl Grey' scribbled on the side by a sharpie that was running dangerously low on ink.

"Thank you very much. I'm Arthur Kirkland," he extended a hand to shake, a firm grip, and Matthew felt a flap of butterflies in his stomach, "And I'm afraid I didn't catch your name?"

"Matthew," he said, unable to stop his own smile when Arthur's was so patently suave, "I'm Matthew Williams. It's my pleasure."

"_Matthew_," Arthur said silkily, giving the doctor the weirdest rush of déjà vu, "What an enchanting name."


End file.
